The Stepsister Scheme

brown skin. Her voice was clear and smooth, almost musical. Only the slightest accent, an emphasis on the longer vowel sounds, distinguished her words from a native Islander. Danielle guessed her to be from the Arathean Deserts to the south, but Talia had never responded to Danielle’s overtures.
    Danielle still couldn’t remember half of the nobles who visited each day, but she knew the names of every servant in the palace. Some were uncomfortable with the princess’ familiarity, while others had started to relax in her presence.
    Talia fit neither category. Strong and slender, she appeared only a little older than Danielle’s eighteen years, yet something in her bearing made Danielle feel like a child. She bowed her head slightly, every movement proper, but her dark eyes met Danielle’s without flinching. “I thought you might appreciate a snack.”
    On the windowsill, the dove cooed and hopped closer. Danielle glared in mock annoyance. “Did you arrange this?”
    “Highness?” Talia was staring at the dove, clearly skeptical of a princess who chatted with the birds.
    “Thank you for the food,” said Danielle. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
    Talia nodded and brought the tray around the bed. With her free hand, she stacked Danielle’s books to one side of the bedside table, then set down the tray, all so smoothly the wine in the cup barely even rippled.
    The movement pulled back Talia’s sleeves, revealing pale scars across her right forearm. Talia noticed Danielle’s gaze, but didn’t bother to adjust her shirt. Instead, she moved to the bed, straightening the covers and returning The Mortal’s Guide to Faerie Courtesy to the stack on the table.
    “Don’t worry about that,” Danielle said. “I can—”
    “You are princess of Lorindar, Your Highness,” said Talia. “Not some ash-covered slave girl from the city.”
    Danielle flushed and turned away. Everyone in the palace knew of her past, though nobody would speak of it to her face. Within days of the winter ball, rumors had spread through the city, growing wilder with every retelling: she had snuck from her house to attend the ball—no, she had stolen a carriage—no, she had ridden within an enchanted pumpkin, drawn by giant mice!
    Danielle had nearly choked when she heard that last variant.
    She grabbed the bread and tore off a hunk of crust, which she tossed to the window. The dove fluttered to catch it before it hit the ground. Bread dangling from his beak, the dove flew up to perch upon a tapestry to the left of the window. Crumbs fell past the old weaving, a faded depiction of the Midsummer War. The tiny stitching showed fairies and their enchanted servants standing at the edge of a great crevasse as armored knights and human wizards drove them back.
    An old wine stain made a skirmish between human cavalry and a pair of griffins appear even bloodier. Danielle ran a finger over the stain. White wine should bleach out the red, and would be far less noticeable. She turned to ask for a bottle of white wine, then bit her lip. Talia was right. She was no longer a servant. But old habits were hard to break.
    “The birds, you train them?” asked Talia.
    “Not exactly.” Danielle grabbed another piece of bread for the dove, wondering how she could explain without convincing yet another servant that their new princess was mad. This was the first time Talia had spoken to her, beyond the requirements of her duties. “You usually tend to the queen.”
    A brief nod as Talia straightened the candleholders mounted to either side of the window. Each was hand-carved oak, shaped to resemble a dragon. The dragon’s tail held the candles, while a mirror clutched in its claws reflected the light back into the room.
    “Do you have family here at the palace?” Danielle asked, trying again.
    “No.”
    Silence stretched between them, until a shout from the hallway made Danielle jump.
    “I wish to see my stepsister at once!”
    Danielle’s throat tightened as Charlotte barged through the door, escorted by two guardsmen. It was nearly four months since the wedding, and the sight of her elder stepsister was still almost enough to make her bow her head. Almost.
    “You can go,” Danielle said to the guards.
    They hesitated, then bowed and backed away.
    “Are you sure, Highness?” Talia asked.
    “She’s still my sister.” Danielle forced herself to meet Charlotte’s angry glare. Small, mostly-healed scabs marred the beautiful porcelain